Like His Brother
by ForeverSirius77
Summary: The tall, black haired man gave no evidence that he felt the storm.' A storm, a long locked room, and memories help a young man come to a decision. Full summary inside.


_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling, who is kind enough to permit me time in her sandbox. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me. _

_Summary_: "One man could be seen still walking along the rough streets, his shoulders hunched and head bowed against the weather, though other than these slight actions, the tall, black-haired man gave no evidence that he felt the storm." _A storm, a long-locked room, and memories help a young man come to a decision. _

_Author's__ Note__: This story was a lot of fun to write, especially considering how little I've explored this particular character. The 'character death' warning is just a precaution, as there is more a bit of "implied" character death than actual death. Also, this fic is in response to VampireKisses' "The Forgotten Return" challenge on the HPFF forums. Now, I present for your enjoyment, _Like His Brother.

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**Like His Brother**

**By ForeverSirius77**

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Rain fell tumultuously from the dark night sky, pounding against the windows as it came down. Most people were inside their homes during this massive storm, but one man could be seen still walking along the rough streets, his shoulders hunched and head bowed against the weather, though other than these slight actions, the tall, black-haired man gave no evidence that he felt the storm. Rather, he just continued on his walk, his hair whipping into his face by the harsh winds, until he came to a tall building and, strolling up the walk in front of the house, he entered.

The black door creaked eerily as he swung it open, its sound echoing throughout the rooms beyond and causing the lone man to wince slightly. He did not want anyone to know he was here, and the door was not helping him to achieve that level of stealth. Straining his ears, though, the man heard nothing – not the pounding of footsteps nor the creaking of doors, not the ringing tones of laughter nor the muttering of voices. Believing, then, that he was alone in the house, he unfroze from the doorway, exhaling a sigh of relief and turning around to close it.

Shutting the door behind him, the young man – barely eighteen years of age – walked through the darkly furnished room and towards a towering staircase. He paid no attention to the antique furniture that he passed – the mahogany chest that was at least two centuries old; the black, leather sofa that had been in the family for ages (the young man thought it was nearly seven decades old, but he was not positive); the polished dining table in the next room, visible through the open doors. Neither did the young man notice the portraits that dotted the dark, wood walls; he did not acknowledge the wizards and witches of the past who looked at him, watched him, as he walked; the young man was not in awe like many would be upon encountering treasures as historical and valuable as he passed. To this man, there was nothing special about it; it was all normal.

As he started to climb the staircase, he stumbled into the railings, his motions reminiscent of a drunken man. Some curses fell from the man's lips, but he was beyond caring about being proper. He had abandoned his attempts at stealth earlier, upon realising that the house held no one but himself. It was a good thing, too, because with each step he took, the noise increased: The young man collapsed twice on the stairs, either tripping over a narrow step or slipping because of the water that fell from his hair and clothes. But he always rose again, continuing his journey and paying little attention to the creaks and groans that the wooden steps emitted. No one was home, after all.

Though he tripped and stumbled many times, he finally reached the top of the staircase. He shuffled over towards a room on his right – the closest door to himself – and immediately entered it, not even realising that this was, perhaps, the first time in years that he had found the door unlocked. (His family usually kept it closed off, so as not to have other relatives nosing about; they had wanted to forget the previous occupant of that room in the same way he had them.)

The room itself was mostly bare – the lone bed had been stripped of covers years ago, and no one had chosen to rectify the situation. After all, if the room was always kept locked, what point would there be in having covers on the bed? The lone bedside table had been emptied that night years ago; the wardrobe's contents were missing, and the single desk had not been used since the previous occupant had left. Only a tall, wing-backed chair was the only piece of furniture that had been added to the room – the grey antique had, previously, taken up space in his mother's parlour, but it had been replaced by one in better condition, and this had been shuffled into this room – the room where family placed things they wished to forget.

And that was how the young man felt: He felt like he wanted to forget (or remember, he was not quite sure), and so he entered this room, falling into the nearby wing-backed chair.

His hand shook slightly as he reached deep into a hidden inside pocket of his long coat, wrapping his trembling fingers around the cool, glimmering jewel of an ornate locket and slowly withdrawing it. The young man held the locket in the palm of his hand, his blue eyes glaring intently at the symbols and carvings upon the jewel's face. Emeralds sparkled in the little candle light in the room, the colours twinkling like stars as the man moved his hand slightly to catch another bit of light. Hesitantly, he reached out a finger and ran it over the emeralds, tracing their pattern and symbol on the locket. It was such a simple piece of jewellery, he thought. So normal and so unimportant, and yet holding something as far from normal as it was possible for an object to contain.

As he gazed at the locket, his mind rebuked him for being so foolish. Why did he take it? What did he hope to achieve? He would die, and what would it accomplish? The thoughts raged in his head, causing his brain to feel like it was splitting in half as it tried to hold the two contrasting emotions inside. He had not had a plan, if he was honest with himself. The young man had no idea what he was doing – or why – but he had just known that he _had _to do it. But now that he had, he did not know what to do next. _This is what I get for not thinking, _he lectured himself. _This is what happens when rashness overcomes logic…. This is where foolishness leads. _

Suddenly, though, the only possible solution came to the young, dark-haired man.

"I'll destroy it," he muttered, his blue gaze focussed intently on the jewellery still held in his palm. The shaking of his limbs, however, had not dimmed. Rather, it had increased, spreading from his hands and arms throughout his entire body: His legs trembled, and he could not stop his knees from shaking; his chest and stomach felt tight, and he was twitching, shaking. "I have to," he whispered, still staring at the jewel. "I have to destroy it."

His traitorous mind, however, kept telling him that he would not succeed. _You are weak, _it said. _You can't do anything about it; you will die for nothing. _He tried desperately to block out the thoughts, argue with them, deny them. But it was no use; his mind kept hounding him with its criticisms. _No one will remember anything great that you did, or tried to do, or anything. You are too weak … weak … weak … _

"No, I'm not…. I am _not _weak." He expected an argument from his mind, but it never came. Rather, the young man's thoughts turned from the negative feelings of weakness and inadequacy to memories of another person, one whom he had not seen for almost three years – and one whom he was supposed to have forgotten. An image of a tall man with long, black hair – much like the young man's own – and startlingly grey eyes appeared in his mind. The man stood proud and strong, with a smile on his face and joy in his eyes. This was how the young man remembered him – in his good memories, at least. He did not want to dwell on the memories he had of this man when the laughter, the joy, the innocence was not there.

There was a strength in that man, in his brother, that he had wanted to share in. He had never really known what it was that made his brother do what he did. He knew there was power, strength, there, but he did not fully understand it. Why hadn't he been able to be like that? Why hadn't he been able to be like his brother? He had wanted to, yes … Oh, for years, he looked up to the one who would protect him, teach him, be there for him.

His brother would make him laugh; they would play together for hours, imagining themselves as powerful and legendary heroes of old. The old and dusty furniture in the attic rooms would become hidden treasures or obstacles on a quest to rescue the captured prisoners. Whenever Bella, Andromeda, or Cissy came over, they would play, too. He remembered exploring hidden lands with his brother as the two played in the back garden: They would defeat the evil giants that sought to destroy the Magical World, and sometimes, there would even be a princess that needed rescuing. Cissy would always want to be the princess, he remembered. Sirius would always partner with him, especially whenever Bella was upset over having to play one of the monsters – She would always take out her frustration on him, but Sirius wouldn't let her get away with it.

Together, they had done everything. His brother, though, changed, but he still admired him. He still wanted to be like him – wanted to share in that power and strength that allowed his brother to become a Gryffindor. Even now, when he had grown older and made choices of his own, he still did not understand what made his brother special; he did not know what, precisely, that strength was, but he still wanted it. He wanted to be strong, he wanted to do right, he wanted to have that power. But he never could; he was not his brother. No matter how hard he tried, he never could do what Sirius had done.

A crash of thunder from outside tore the young man's thoughts from his weaknesses, from his situation, from his brother. He stared out of the tall glass windows that, despite the storm that was raging throughout London, were open. Rain fell from the sky, washing away the dirt from the streets as it hit the concrete. And it was at that moment, as he watched the rain in its cleaning of the world, that he realised that he could be like his brother. The mistakes of his past could be rectified, if only by a little bit. By choosing to take the locket, he knew he would die physically, but if he did change, if, like the rain, his soul had a cleansing, then a part of him would still live; he wouldn't completely die.

The rain would wash his past away, would cleanse his soul of its previous horrors. Regulus Black knew that he would die, but in doing so, he would be born again.

He could finally be like his brother.

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_Author's__ Note__: Well, I hope you enjoyed reading this short story. The drabble (originally written for the 'Mythology O.W.L. class, Spring Term' on the MNFF forums) that this story came from was originally titled "The Rain," but it was changed to its present title as I added in a bit more of Regulus's thoughts about Sirius. _

_This was my first time writing Regulus as a main character, as well, so I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you think._

_--ForeverSirius77_


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